


The Happiest

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Birthday Sex, Blindfolds, Fluff and Smut, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magic and Sex, Oral Sex, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19887235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: Quentin's birthday makes him anxious, but Eliot comes home with a sexy new spell that helps him enjoy it for once.





	The Happiest

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime after the true s4 ending - the one where everyone lives and Eliot and Quentin have an apartment and are learning to be happy and starting the rest of their lives together. 
> 
> Happy 27th birthday, Q <3

Birthdays are hard. Quentin’s birthday is his least favorite day of the year, has always been his least favorite day, ever since he realized that other kids’ families went on vacations in July, and no one was around to attend his birthday parties. He has a vivid memory of sitting alone at a pool with Julia, party hats scattered behind them because Quentin had begged for something like he saw on tv shows, a big party with all the decorations and trimmings—and then everyone had been away except for them, and his parents had been arguing too much to realize that they hadn’t received any RSVPs, and hadn’t cancelled, or prepared him. As an adult, he hates his birthday because those memories mix with the other bad feelings about himself that he carries, even if by now they’re sometimes dormant, lying just underneath the surface of his happiness. Summers have always been the hardest, anyway, because he usually has school the other three-quarters of the year as a distraction, and without that, he has too much time to think. 

Quentin wakes up by himself on his birthday, and even though he’s expecting it, he still feels that pang that comes with facing this particular day alone. He knows where Eliot’s gone, and he even knows when he’ll be back (they’ve established a system now, exactly timing when they won’t be together, so that neither of them worries unnecessarily), but the day stretches out in between, and it’s enough to make him want to stay in bed, curled up and surrounded by pillows. 

He pulls himself out of bed, eventually, and showers, and walks around the apartment in his boxers, looking for distractions. He pokes around the kitchen, settling on breakfast that he’s just going to pick at, but secretly looking for a hidden cake of some kind—he’s already been assured there’s nothing there, but he can’t imagine Eliot is really going to let him get away with not celebrating his birthday, not anymore. 

The apartment feels too bright, and Quentin keeps thinking he’s hearing sounds, but they turn out to just be memories, playing irritatingly in the back of his mind. He’s hyper-sensitive on days like this, he sees every mote of dust in floating sunlit through the air, the normal sounds of the refrigerator and fans turning on automatically startle him, pressing against his ears; he curls up on the couch and tries to watch TV, then gives up and pulls out a book instead, trying to lose himself in familiar words. 

He sleeps, apparently, because he wakes up abruptly at the sound of the apartment door opening. It’s been…a while since there was any danger chasing them, but Quentin still startles at the noise, still jumps up, his pulse racing, flipping the book onto the floor, and chases the outlines of the room with his eyes, checking for anything unexpected.

When Eliot walks into the room, perspiring slightly, with a familiar but still new glint in his eyes, Quentin can’t help but collapse onto his knees in front of the couch. Eliot was supposed to be out until later, and Quentin doesn’t want surprises, on days where his nerves are already dialed up to eleven, and the relief that he isn’t being attacked falls over him like a weight. He blinks up at Eliot, who’s carrying a small brown paper bag and is looking at Quentin with worry rapidly moving towards alarm. 

Eliot rushes over, depositing the bag on the coffee table. He runs his hands swiftly over Quentin’s back and stomach, looking for damage, then pulls his face up to study it, meeting Quentin’s eyes firmly, so that a small wave of calm pours over him. Quentin breathes out carefully, focusing his energy on Eliot, trying not to notice the other things buzzing around him. Eliot smiles cautiously, his hands still cupping Quentin’s face.

“All good?”

Quentin nods slowly. Eliot reminds him that he has something to work towards, always, a future that he wants, that _they_ want. Quentin’s pulse starts slowing down, towards normal. 

“Happy birthday,” Eliot says, softly because he knows he’s not supposed to bring it up. Quentin doesn’t hate it when he says it though, and he gets that feeling of knowing they’ve been here before, that he’s let Eliot get away with celebrating his birthday before, maybe many times, in memories that feel vivid sometimes, and sometimes hazy, like a dream. He wants to open himself up to the memories, he wants to ground himself in the present, he wants to make a memory that feels more like himself—the damaged now-version of himself—to hold onto. 

He brings a hand up and presses it over one of Eliot’s, knitting their fingers together and sighing when Eliot pulls their hands away from Quentin’s face and presses a kiss to the back of Quentin’s hand. It’s so familiar, and so strange, and it makes Quentin’s skin tingle in ways that feel good instead of stressful. 

“You came back early,” Quentin says. He wishes it wasn’t so easy to tell that he’s relieved.

Eliot nods. “My errands took less time than expected.” 

Quentin eyes the bag on the table, curious in spite of himself. He doesn’t want any presents, or anything, he doesn’t really even want to hear the word “birthday” again today, he just wants to curl up with Eliot and wait for the day to end. 

“I know you said no presents,” Eliot says warily, following his gaze, “but I’m really not a very good listener.”

Quentin smiles before he can stop himself, then sighs dramatically so Eliot knows he’s not really upset. “Okay, fine, um…give me the presents.”

Eliot’s eyes light up again, and he grins, although Quentin can tell he’s still holding back a little, ready to trash whatever his plan is the moment Quentin stops enjoying it. He leans forward and captures Quentin’s mouth in a kiss, tender and slow and emotional. Quentin’s stomach flutters wildly and he closes his eyes; he feels foolish, but after so long together, and time apart that felt even longer, now it feels like something new and thrilling again.

Eliot pulls away and Quentin doesn’t move immediately, pouring his attention into the subtle tingling on his lips. With his eyes closed, he can feel the sensation left by the kiss strongly, as though those nerves are lit by a spotlight, and it’s such a relief from the external sensations he’s been assaulted with all day that he relaxes into it gladly. 

When he opens his eyes, Eliot is looking at him expectantly. 

“Was that the present?” Quentin asks, feeling a little dazed, “Because you can definitely do better.”

“It was not.” Eliot laughs, but it’s clear he’s going somewhere and isn’t going to let Quentin derail it. “It’s better, isn’t it? When you close your eyes?” He reaches out and caresses Quentin’s cheek. “When I’m touching you?”

Quentin nods, sinking into the touch. “It’s better.” 

It must be one of Eliot’s memories, how to soothe him when he’s having a bad day like this, when it’s all too much and focus is inevitable, so focusing on something good is better than the alternative. It makes Quentin feel warm, the thought of Eliot reaching into those memories, the thought of Eliot wanting to remember how to deal with days that Quentin himself doesn’t want to deal with, the reminder that Eliot _wants_ to be here, with him—it’s enough of a present on its own. 

Eliot runs his fingers down Quentin’s chest and Quentin shivers at the light touch; he’d completely forgotten that he was only wearing boxers. It’s good, it _is_ better, when Eliot’s touching him, and he feels his cock stirring despite the fact that he’s still feeling a steady undercurrent of stress, still distracted by everything he can see around him, tiny things he normally wouldn’t even notice. 

“I learned a spell,” Eliot says, his voice tinged with want, “but we don’t have to use it today…only if you want to.”

“What spell?” Quentin asks. Eliot is tracing his fingers along his waistband, his other hand still pressed up against Quentin’s face, gently stroking his neck and jawbone, fingers catching gently in his hair. It’s distracting, good distracting. 

“It’s kind of like…a magical blindfold,” Eliot says uncertainly, his hands continuing their motion. 

“O-okay…”

“I’d cast it, and it would put an invisible blindfold over your eyes—easier to take off than untying a real one—and it also makes you more sensitive when I touch you.” He pauses. “I guess technically it’s more of a nerve-focusing spell, but it seemed like it might be…good for other things…if you want.”

Quentin considers. It’s like closing his eyes, except he doesn’t have to think about it—he knows they’ve done things like this before, although never with magic, and Eliot must know that too, so his hesitation is more about being extra careful. Quentin appreciates the caution, he likes that he gets to decide, and that he knows Eliot wants this because he thinks it will make Quentin feel better. Plus, Quentin’s already starting to get aroused from the touches, and he feels safe when he’s with Eliot, and the idea of the spell is…intriguing.

“We could try.”

“If you don’t like it, we stop,” Eliot promises. “You have to tell me if you don’t like it, okay?”

Quentin nods. He can do that. Eliot rocks forward and kisses him deeply, and Quentin can tell he’s excited about this, even if he’s not selling it that way. It is exciting, enough that he’s not focusing anymore on how he doesn’t want it to be today, his anxiety getting overridden by curiosity and arousal.

Eliot stands up and pulls Quentin up after him, relocating them towards the bedroom. There would have been something erotic about doing this in the living room, where they have windows and it’s brightly lit, but there’s fewer sounds in the bedroom, fewer things that might distract him, and this feels like something they should be doing in private. Eliot presses him against the doorframe for another kiss, and Quentin leans into the feel of the firm wood behind his back, the warm press of Eliot against him on the other side. 

Eliot pulls away, grabs Quentin’s hand and leads him into the bedroom, looking back at him with his eyes wide and happy, like they’re in some scene in a sappy romantic movie. Not that Quentin’s complaining. 

Eliot sits down on the bed and Quentin sits down next to him. There’s a pause, and Quentin knows this is his chance to change his mind, the question hanging in the air. He’s not changing his mind. 

“Okay, so how does this go?” 

Eliot smiles, reassured. “Just relax.”

Quentin lies back on the bed, his heart beating a mile a minute, but now it’s out of anticipation instead of fear. He watches as Eliot stands up and removes his shirt and pants, humming something and moving his hips back and forth in circles while he does, which Quentin finds incredibly sexy even though it’s also really ridiculous. Once they’re both down to their underwear, Eliot kneels next to him on the bed and looks at him questioningly one more time, nodding back when Quentin voices his assent. 

Eliot moves his hands in a series of tuts that Quentin hasn’t seen before (and unfortunately he knows he won’t remember, not with the adrenaline taking over his thoughts) and then he presses his hand against Quentin’s arm and speaks a series of quiet words. In a moment, a veil seems to settle over Quentin. It’s not like being actually blindfolded, not really, it’s like looking at the sky, like being in one of those planetarium shows where you’re surrounded by the night sky and constellations, only Quentin doesn’t see any stars. He feels enveloped, but it’s comforting, quiet, not pressing down on him but folding him into a space where there isn’t light and noise assaulting him. He can feel Eliot’s hand on his arm, but the sensation goes from a comforting presence to a feeling more intense—he can’t focus on anything except Eliot’s hand on his arm, the way his arm seems to be floating in a space he can’t see and still part of him, the only part of him that’s ever felt anything, nerves firing rapidly, fire spreading pleasantly across his body, centered at Eliot’s touch. 

“How does it feel?” Eliot asks, quietly, and his head is much closer to Quentin’s than he expected. He can feel Eliot’s breath tickle against his neck—it feels like a brush of sparks. 

“Weird,” Quentin says, glad he’s able to say anything, because the change in sensations is distracting. He doesn’t feel worried, though, he doesn’t feel the birthday pressure, or the feelings of inadequacy he’s always holding onto under the surface. He feels like the only thing in the room is him, and Eliot, and it’s calming and exciting simultaneously. “But…good.”

“I can take it away.” Eliot’s voice isn’t as close, and he sounds concerned. 

Quentin shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He can feel Eliot relax, feel him lie down on the bed again, his weight pressing the soft sheets against Quentin’s mostly bare skin—it feels nice, but not as striking as the touches. 

“Okay, I’m going to touch you, okay?” 

Quentin nods, and Eliot’s other hand starts stroking his hair, his temple, his cheek, his neck, moving slowly downwards. Every touch, every swipe of Eliot’s fingers, instills new life into Quentin, like shocks of air. He leans into it, pressing his face towards Eliot’s hand, chasing the sensation. Eliot pulls his hand away briefly and the whining noise escapes Quentin’s throat before he can think about it.

Eliot laughs softly. “That seems like a good sign.”

He puts his hand back, runs his fingers along the back of Quentin’s neck, and Quentin can feel the sparks from Eliot’s fingers traveling through his body. Suddenly, Eliot’s mouth is on his, and the kiss is hungry and deep and filled with longing, and it feels like nothing Quentin has felt before, amplified a thousand times, the sensations running right to his cock. Quentin can feel himself growing hard, can feel the twitch of arousal mixing with the explosive kiss. He wants to see Eliot, but he’s reveling in the not-knowing, the removal of the anxiety that comes with looking ahead, with trying to control things. 

Eliot keeps kissing him, but the hand on his neck moves lower, lifting away from Quentin’s skin briefly, and while Quentin is trying to figure out what Eliot’s going to do next, Eliot’s fingers are back on his skin, playing lightly over his nipple and making him gasp with surprise and arousal. Quentin lets himself sink further into the sensations as Eliot switches light touches with firm touches with the lightest scrape of his nail, first one and then the other—his back arches slightly and Eliot’s second hand, still on Quentin’s arm, tightens its grip—clearly Eliot is also getting excited by this. 

After a few moments, Eliot’s fingers move away from his nipple and continue stroking down his stomach. Quentin reaches out and wraps his arms around Eliot, pulling him down so their chests are pressed together—the sensations, the flying sparks from so much skin contact are so overwhelming Quentin cries out, his back arches again, pushing up into Eliot, his cock making brief but impactful contact through his boxers with Eliot’s thigh. 

Eliot pulls back, breaking the kiss, breaking away from Quentin’s hold, tensing up, and Quentin takes a moment to let himself breathe, almost panting. 

“I’m good,” he says breathily, and he can feel Eliot relax. 

“Do you want to keep going?” Eliot asks, pressing his mouth against Quentin’s neck and Quentin can barely mumble “uh huh.”. 

Eliot keeps kissing his neck, and his hands are back on Quentin, both hands this time, roving across his chest and moving down, down, down, until one of them is stroking his stomach just above his waistband, and the other is gently playing against his hip. Eliot’s mouth moves lower, kissing down his chest and Quentin can feel Eliot’s weight shift again and then his mouth is on Quentin’s nipple, his tongue brushing hotly against it, and the hand simultaneously moving off of his hip and lightly touching his cock through the fabric. The three sensations are so much, Quentin can hardly think, can hardly breathe, and all he can hear is his pulse beating loudly in his ears and the sounds of his own moans and, more quietly, of Eliot’s mouth as he licks and sucks at Quentin’s nipple. 

Quentin’s incredibly hard, and he’s completely focused on this, on Eliot, on the way Eliot is touching him and the electricity flowing between their touches. A moment, maybe a minute, maybe longer, and suddenly Eliot is gone, his touches removed and Quentin shivers in the air that suddenly flows freely over his skin. 

Another second, and the hands are on his stomach, pulling down his boxers in one swift motion, and Quentin shivers again, with anticipation this time. There’s a breath, a moment where Quentin is just laid out, exposed, waiting, completely undone by the idea of Eliot sitting above him, watching him lie there naked. 

Then Eliot’s hands are back, teasing, touching his hipbones and his thighs and working their way towards his cock, just barely grazing it when he feels the softer warmth of Eliot’s mouth on his hip, sucking a bruise, sending nerve pulses racing through him. Quentin’s breathing gets faster, and he can’t help pushing his hips up into the touches, until Eliot breaks his mouth away and Quentin can feel him hovering just above his cock, Eliot’s breath as overwhelming as a touch, his cock twitching with each exhale. 

“Please—“ Quentin moans.

In an instant, one of Eliot’s hands is wrapped around Quentin’s cock, and his mouth lowers, his tongue licking soft lines across the tip. It’s incredibly light touching, and it’s driving Quentin mad, he can’t focus on anything else, he’s moaning and his hips try to press deeper into Eliot’s mouth but Eliot stays in control until Quentin can barely handle it, until his skin is buzzing and he’s seeing stars flash across his vision and all he can feel is Eliot. 

Eliot continues the light touching and then suddenly stops resisting Quentin, so that when he thrusts his hips upward, his cock is completely enveloped by Eliot’s mouth. Quentin groans, loudly, as Eliot lets him fuck into his mouth, sucking Quentin deep into his throat while he licks around his cock, pressing his tongue against it. It’s the most Quentin has ever _felt_ , it’s enough that tears collect in the corners of his eyes and he can’t control his hip thrusts or his moans, wrapping one of his hands tightly in the sheets and finding Eliot’s hair with the other hand and entwining his fingers in it. 

Eliot sucks hard and simultaneously takes Quentin as deeply as possible, and Quentin knows he can’t last much longer, and he wants to see it now, he wants to watch Eliot sucking his cock with abandon. 

“Let—let me see.”

Eliot’s hands leave his skin for a moment, although ending the spell must not require words because he doesn’t pause the motions of his mouth, licking in circles around the head of Quentin’s cock while he does the hand motions. Quentin’s vision abruptly clears, like a curtain being lifted. 

It’s bright, and he quickly blinks away the spots in front of his eyes so that he can watch Eliot, who’s also completely naked, pressing him down into the bed, Quentin’s cock disappearing into his mouth, his head held between Quentin’s bucking hips and Quentin’s hand knit tightly to his hair. The sensations don’t dull, even though the spell has been lifted, and Quentin can feel everything pulling him towards his orgasm, the physical sparks of his nerves at every touch mixing with the sight of Eliot, his hair mussed and his face flushed and his attention completely focused on Quentin. 

It takes only a few more seconds before he’s coming, yelling out Eliot’s name, his hips stuttering up one last time. Quentin feels exhausted, but calm, and present, and he carefully untangles his hand from Eliot’s hair as he licks him clean and then pulls away, his eyes dark with arousal. Eliot drapes himself across Quentin’s body, pressing their mouths together fiercely, and Quentin can feel the weight of Eliot’s cock, slotting naturally between Quentin’s legs. 

Quentin is floating, he feels perfect and satisfied and he loves Eliot more than he wants to let himself say, just in case it’s still too much. He lets himself melt into the kisses instead, hoping some of the emotions filter through that way. The kisses turn heavier, and when Eliot starts moving his hips, dragging his cock through the space between Quentin’s legs, he feels a renewed spark of arousal, and he wraps his arms around Eliot, pulling him close, and squeezes his legs together, creating more friction for him to thrust into. 

Eliot moans into Quentin’s mouth, and it’s filthy and perfect, and every time Eliot’s cock drags back and forth across his skin it sends sparks flying across his body, his mind focusing on the feel of it all while the sensations are still heightened, the feel of Eliot’s cock and his tongue and his hips pressing Quentin down into the bed. Quentin runs his fingers along Eliot’s back, softly and then pressing harder, until Eliot’s motions get less even and his breathing is heavier and he’s moaning into the kisses and it’s motions and touches and fire and then Eliot’s body tenses and Quentin knows he’s coming, can feel it stripe across his inner thighs and the bed. 

Eliot goes limp, and they lie there, Quentin’s arms wrapped tightly around him, both of them breathing heavily, their kisses turned gentle and loving. 

“That was…a good present,” Quentin says softly, and he means it. 

Eliot laughs breathily. “I thought you’d like it. Me too.” He pauses. “Maybe that can be our special birthday thing.”

“And maybe also half birthdays,” Quentin mumbles, and Eliot laughs again, and he sounds genuinely happy, which makes Quentin feel happy, too. 

“Whatever makes you happiest.”

Quentin smiles, and closes his eyes, meaning to only do so for a moment, still holding tightly to Eliot, his weight on top of him a comfort; Quentin feels relaxed completely, his brain quieter than it had been the entire rest of the day, focused only on Eliot...

When Quentin wakes up hours later, the room is very dark, and Eliot is sitting beside him on the bed, looking down at him fondly. He didn’t mean to sleep, and he feels a slight panic at the thought that he was ignoring Eliot, that he was sleeping while they were supposed to be spending time together, but Eliot only looks happy, so he pushes the thoughts away. 

“I guess I slept.”

“Do you want the second part of your present?”

Quentin’s mind flashes back to the first part of his present, and he can’t think of anything that could possibly follow that, unless it’s a glass of water and a sandwich, because he feels incredibly thirsty and hungry. Also, he’s not even sure it’s still his birthday day. 

“Is it even still today?”

Eliot grins, “It’s still your birthday for a few hours. You have to sit up though.”

Quentin sits up reluctantly; he feels sore, like he’s been running or lifting weights or something else he doesn’t actually do—maybe a side effect of the spell, in which case, completely worth it. Something small and indistinct floats into the room and lands just behind Eliot, and he reveals it from behind his back with a flourish: it’s a small, slightly squished cupcake, with a single candle in it, burning with a bright gold flame. Eliot places it gently on the bed between them, and Quentin takes a moment to appreciate the way the flame flickers golden across Eliot’s face, lighting his eyes softly. 

“Why only one candle?”

Eliot rolls his eyes, but he still looks hopeful. “Because it’s a really small cupcake—just blow out the damn candle.”

Quentin grins, and he makes a silent wish—he thinks that’s what he’s supposed to do—and leans down and blows out the candle. Some part of it is magic, because the candle flame blows out and sprinkles little gold glitters of light across the space between them, like he’d blown the flame into tiny pieces that hang in the air. It’s weird and gorgeous, and Eliot looks pleased that it worked. 

Quentin’s really very hungry, so he picks up the cupcake and takes a bite; he can feel the frosting smear across his mouth, and in a moment Eliot is leaning across the space between them to lick the extra frosting away. It’s so cliche, the whole cupcake/candle/kissing, but it’s also wonderful and Quentin maybe finally understands where those cliches come from. 

“I love you, Q,” Eliot says, his face hovering close. “Happy birthday.”

“The happiest,” Quentin sighs, and it really is. It takes him a moment to process the rest of it, and to reply. “I love you, too.”

It’s the millionth time they’ve said that to each other, but it’s also the first time, and Quentin feels emotions bubbling inside him, surging through his body, and he leans forward and crashes their lips together. He kind of can’t believe he’s actually had a birthday that didn’t completely suck. 

They pull apart, and Eliot produces two glasses of champagne, which is exactly what Quentin wants, he just hadn’t realized. It feels like a celebration, and it feels like a start, and Quentin can’t wait. 

“To many more,” Eliot says, clinking their glasses together. 

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, taking a sip of the champagne, “to many, many more.”

  
  
  



End file.
